The Exaltation of the Lark
by Nimori
Summary: Slash. Mirror version of 'Je Te Plumerais'. The damaged bird must mend his wings. Complete.
1. Header

Title: The Exaltation of the Lark  
Author: Nimori  
Pairings: LM/HP  
Rating: R  
Disclaimer: See that lady over there? Hers, not mine. See all the money? Same deal.  
Archive: Beloved Enemies, my site, others on request  
Feedback: is a wonderful thing.   
Summary: Mirror version of 'Je Te Plumerais'. The damaged bird must mend his wings.   
Note1: Will make precious little sense unless you've read 'Je Te Plumerais'.  
Note2: The title is taken from the collective noun for larks. We all know it's 'a pride of lions', 'a flock of sheep', and 'a gaggle of geese', but what do you call a group of bears? Rabbits? Foxes? Well according to these people: http://lonestar.texas.net/~rferrell/collects2.html , it's a sleuth of bears, a nest of rabbits, a skulk of foxes... and an exalting of larks.  
Warning: Slash ahoy!  
  
  
  
  
Harry Potter broke me.  
  
He must have, for I resisted Voldemort's petty attempts for two decades, so why should his final effort succeed? Such a pathetic trial, really, locking me in a cell with a sixteen-year-old boy. No, it must have been Potter. Harry. As Harry must have killed the Dark Lord, no matter what the Daily Prophet says. It's ridiculous to think Dumbledore, Snape, Black, and Arthur Weasley's little army of red-headed spawn brought Voldemort down.   
  
It was Harry. It must have been, for if Harry Potter killed the great Lord Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy never stood a chance.  
  
I have to believe that, because Harry Potter broke me.  
  
* * * * *  
  
An eloquence of lawyers, a damning of jurors, a sentencing of judges. They all stare at me, and many of them owe me, in galleons or favours or blood. In other circumstances they would stumble over each other trying to extricate themselves from my debt, to please me, to earn my good opinion, but now...  
  
Tongues flicking out with nerves and greed, they taste my weakness, and smell their own opportunities; Slytherins, all of them, even those once sorted into other houses. Should I go to Azkaban for my crimes -- dear, departed Narcissa's crimes, I should say -- all debts dissolve, and the jackals in ministry robes may scavenge my assets.  
  
They stare, the wolves, the vipers, the hyenas and vultures, and I hold myself like the man I was, like a Malfoy, for I refuse to let them know the light hurts my eyes. I refuse to remove the elegant robe my son brought me, though the lack of chill makes me nauseous. I refuse to let the press of people set me shivering. I refuse to be unnerved by all the eyes that aren't green, the hair that isn't black and messy, the bodies too tall or too short or too fat or too thin... all the faces that aren't his.  
  
I think of my darling wife instead. I'm not sure whether to be proud of her for advancing herself, or disgusted that her betrayal was so ill-planned and short-sighted. I can't fault Narcissa for her ambition, but her impatience cost us the war. Voldemort, much as he hated to admit it, needed me, and I will never know why he chose to humour my wife when he well knew I never betrayed him.  
  
Someone has asked me a question. I draw a cloak of wounded, confused dignity about myself before I answer, dismayed to find it less an act than I intended. Yes, I was a Death Eater. No, I did not take the mark willingly. Why, imperius, of course. Yes, Narcissa cast it... surely you knew she was Voldemort's most trusted servant? My apologies for offending the court, Your Honour. I meant You-Know-Who.  
  
On it goes, and I calculate the line I must walk with each answer. I am not worried; I know I will leave a free man in the end. After all, I've done this before.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Draco is the wand up my sleeve. He has turned eighteen over the course of the trial, and gained access to the trust funds my father left him. Clean money. His money. Unreproachable. Those who think of turning on me must now factor Draco's vengeance into the price of my conviction. His loyalty to me has sent him on foolish paths before, and they know it.  
  
I don't know where this streak of Gryffindorish fidelity of his came from, nor do I have the heart to explain to him that running to Dumbledore on my behalf was a gross betrayal of our cause. He's a child still, and has yet to separate his love for me from his love for himself. Perhaps someday I will explain it to him, but not until I'm sure of my own motives.  
  
He comes to visit me as often as his studies allow, bribing the guards to allow me comforts I don't want and bringing once-familiar possessions which I no longer know. The table from Japan and carpet from Morocco seem obscene in my cool, stone cell, and I wish for a little sand to draw in. I'm not sure what to do with a quill.  
  
He also brings a chess set, and looks at me as though I've gone mad when I suggest checkers.  
  
* * * * *  
  
It is through my son that I learn Harry is at Hogwarts as well, finishing off his education. Draco says he seems subdued -- or at least, I infer 'subdued' from 'sulking that his so-called friends stole all his glory' -- but my son is far more interested in his revived friendship with Severus Snape than anything Harry does.  
  
Snape. The crafty serpent stole my son while I was locked away, convinced him of the rightness of his betrayal, sold him on the principles of the victorious. Draco takes my silence on the subject for approval, and enthuses over Snape's masterpiece of treachery, even as I try not to ask how Snape is dealing with Harry's return.   
  
Draco's irate snort tells me my efforts have failed; I have asked. He gives me a brief, unsatisfying answer, then returns to expounding upon his admiration for a man I hate.  
  
I can't correct him; I'm too busy trying to avoid the same trap myself.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The trial ends with a hoard of press members nearly wetting themselves in their eagerness to get a word from me. I give them a statement here and there, my arm around Draco's shoulders, both of us playing victim.  
  
In a way, I am, only my tormentor was not Narcissa, nor has my ordeal ended.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The first thing I do with my new freedom is buy a carmensieve of children's songs. 'Allouette' is sung by a witch with an annoyingly nasal voice. I throw it out.  
  
* * * * *  
  
I could ignore the damage to my being until they thrust me back into the world. I'm grateful for the trial, for the halfway house it provided as they shuffled me between a not-quite-right cell, and a crowded courtroom. I shudder to imagine how much more swiftly I would have fallen apart if not for those intermediate months.  
  
I sit at my new desk, in my new house, both untouched by rabid auror or foolish wife. There are things that must be done, and I cannot afford to pamper myself. The ministry took most of my wealth, leaving me with the few assets I could prove untainted by 'Narcissa's' evil schemes, and the larger sums I had concealed for just such a disaster.   
  
I am still well-off.  
  
That's not good enough for a Malfoy.  
  
It shouldn't be good enough.  
  
I watch the light bleeding all over my desk, and realize I am humming.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry Potter broke me.  
  
Like a skulking pusher of Knockturn Alley he let me sample his wares, drugged me with his body, instilled this sweet craving for young flesh, addicted me to green eyes.   
  
*His* flesh. *His* eyes.  
  
I've come to realize the delicious, deadly burn of him will never leave my blood. Merlin, I hate him.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The nameless young man does not question the setting, though he shivers in the chill. His eyes pay due homage to my still-admirable body, but his appreciation is too submissive to please me. This boy does not have the bollocks to meet my gaze, stare me down, secure in the knowledge he is right and good and fair and honest, and I am not.  
  
This boy does not think himself better than me, and cannot chose to touch me despite his arrogance.  
  
It takes me an hour to come, and I leave him sore and disgruntled and only a little wealthier.  
  
* * * * *  
  
I have a small collection of carmensieves now; dozens of versions of 'Allouette'. None of the singers pronounce gentile 'jaunty'.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Draco, my shining, darling boy, once again comes through for me, and brings me a single hair. He asks me flatly what I plan to do with it, and I can see Snape's sneer stealing onto a face that once belonging solely to me, I can feel the self-righteous lecture brewing under the moonlight skin, ready to burst forth with all of Severus' unholy joy in putting a person in his or her place. All the fanaticism of the converted.  
  
So I tell him, and his disgust and horror delight me.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The polyjuice experiment goes very, very badly, and I nearly kill the whore in frustration. 'Avada' escapes my lips before the wide, frightened, green eyes that once reflected the killing curse still my lips. I obliviate him, and leave my galleons on the table.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry Potter broke me like a child playing with a toy, careless and curious, innocent in his devastating exploration. No comprehension of what he has done, the damage he has wrought, no understanding of the irreversible nature of destruction. He pulled me apart, piece by piece; plucked out my eyes, my tongue, my mind, my heart and left me gutted.  
  
I get hard just thinking of it.  
  
* * * * *  
  
One day in June a lark lights on the window sill.  
  
I stun it, lift it gently, feel its heart pounding madly against my palm. "Allouette," I whisper. "Je suis desole. Vous devez mourir, parce qu'il m'a plume. Je suis desole. Je suis desole." [1]  
  
And I am.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Draco comes home as June gives way to July. He isn't in much, and I understand this strange house is just a temporary stop, a place from which to launch his own flight. His own career. His own life. I let him go, knowing I lost him more than a year ago, and try to hold my tongue whenever he brings Snape home.  
  
I wonder if Harry liked his present, and ignore it when Snape holds my son's hand.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Fuck. That little bastard *broke* me.  
  
* * * * *   
  
"How I love this light."  
  
And, Merlin, I do. It makes him seem less of a wild thing, softens the divine angles of him and banks those burning eyes. The poor little bird decorates his flat now, beautiful and savage and refined and desolate, just like me, just like him. He is wonderful in his refusal to acknowledge me.  
  
*Make me crawl to you.*  
  
I try again. "I love how it tames your eyes, how it deepens them and calms the restlessness."  
  
*Make me beg.*  
  
He does, with a single feather to his lips, and I do. "Don't let me go. I'm so lost." The words fall like cathartic dreams churning up from the subconscious, only I know this confession. I live it every day. I will speak it forever into the cavernous universe, but I would much rather pour it into his body, my altar, our sacramental dance stripped to its essence.  
  
God, I want him to fuck me.  
  
I kiss his nape, and he speaks at last, his own confession tossed to me as my reward. His accent has improved; he has been practicing, and the devastating purr of his voice undoes me completely, and I moan, and obey him as I must. I kiss and touch him as he commands.  
  
"Marry me."   
  
The words hang in the air, and for a moment I am terrified he has said them, but then he answers, and it was I who asked, I who was broken, not Harry. Never Harry.  
  
Yes.  
  
Yes.  
  
Yes.  
  
He captures me, and my hearts beats as the lark's did before I killed it, and he brings his lips to mine.   
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry Potter broke me, and for that I will love him for all eternity.  
  
  
  
~Finis~  
  
[1] "Allouette," I whisper. "Je suis desole. Vous devez mourir, parce qu'il m'a plume. Je suis desole. Je suis desole."  
  
"Lark," I whisper. "I'm sorry. You must die, because he has plucked me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 


	2. The Exaltation of the Lark

Sorry to split this in two chapters. No matter what I do, only the header comes up if I post it all at once.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Harry Potter broke me.  
  
He must have, for I resisted Voldemort's petty attempts for two decades, so why should his final effort succeed? Such a pathetic trial, really, locking me in a cell with a sixteen-year-old boy. No, it must have been Potter. Harry. As Harry must have killed the Dark Lord, no matter what the Daily Prophet says. It's ridiculous to think Dumbledore, Snape, Black, and Arthur Weasley's little army of red-headed spawn brought Voldemort down.   
  
It was Harry. It must have been, for if Harry Potter killed the great Lord Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy never stood a chance.  
  
I have to believe that, because Harry Potter broke me.  
  
* * * * *  
  
An eloquence of lawyers, a damning of jurors, a sentencing of judges. They all stare at me, and many of them owe me, in galleons or favours or blood. In other circumstances they would stumble over each other trying to extricate themselves from my debt, to please me, to earn my good opinion, but now...  
  
Tongues flicking out with nerves and greed, they taste my weakness, and smell their own opportunities; Slytherins, all of them, even those once sorted into other houses. Should I go to Azkaban for my crimes -- dear, departed Narcissa's crimes, I should say -- all debts dissolve, and the jackals in ministry robes may scavenge my assets.  
  
They stare, the wolves, the vipers, the hyenas and vultures, and I hold myself like the man I was, like a Malfoy, for I refuse to let them know the light hurts my eyes. I refuse to remove the elegant robe my son brought me, though the lack of chill makes me nauseous. I refuse to let the press of people set me shivering. I refuse to be unnerved by all the eyes that aren't green, the hair that isn't black and messy, the bodies too tall or too short or too fat or too thin... all the faces that aren't his.  
  
I think of my darling wife instead. I'm not sure whether to be proud of her for advancing herself, or disgusted that her betrayal was so ill-planned and short-sighted. I can't fault Narcissa for her ambition, but her impatience cost us the war. Voldemort, much as he hated to admit it, needed me, and I will never know why he chose to humour my wife when he well knew I never betrayed him.  
  
Someone has asked me a question. I draw a cloak of wounded, confused dignity about myself before I answer, dismayed to find it less an act than I intended. Yes, I was a Death Eater. No, I did not take the mark willingly. Why, imperius, of course. Yes, Narcissa cast it... surely you knew she was Voldemort's most trusted servant? My apologies for offending the court, Your Honour. I meant You-Know-Who.  
  
On it goes, and I calculate the line I must walk with each answer. I am not worried; I know I will leave a free man in the end. After all, I've done this before.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Draco is the wand up my sleeve. He has turned eighteen over the course of the trial, and gained access to the trust funds my father left him. Clean money. His money. Unreproachable. Those who think of turning on me must now factor Draco's vengeance into the price of my conviction. His loyalty to me has sent him on foolish paths before, and they know it.  
  
I don't know where this streak of Gryffindorish fidelity of his came from, nor do I have the heart to explain to him that running to Dumbledore on my behalf was a gross betrayal of our cause. He's a child still, and has yet to separate his love for me from his love for himself. Perhaps someday I will explain it to him, but not until I'm sure of my own motives.  
  
He comes to visit me as often as his studies allow, bribing the guards to allow me comforts I don't want and bringing once-familiar possessions which I no longer know. The table from Japan and carpet from Morocco seem obscene in my cool, stone cell, and I wish for a little sand to draw in. I'm not sure what to do with a quill.  
  
He also brings a chess set, and looks at me as though I've gone mad when I suggest checkers.  
  
* * * * *  
  
It is through my son that I learn Harry is at Hogwarts as well, finishing off his education. Draco says he seems subdued -- or at least, I infer 'subdued' from 'sulking that his so-called friends stole all his glory' -- but my son is far more interested in his revived friendship with Severus Snape than anything Harry does.  
  
Snape. The crafty serpent stole my son while I was locked away, convinced him of the rightness of his betrayal, sold him on the principles of the victorious. Draco takes my silence on the subject for approval, and enthuses over Snape's masterpiece of treachery, even as I try not to ask how Snape is dealing with Harry's return.   
  
Draco's irate snort tells me my efforts have failed; I have asked. He gives me a brief, unsatisfying answer, then returns to expounding upon his admiration for a man I hate.  
  
I can't correct him; I'm too busy trying to avoid the same trap myself.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The trial ends with a hoard of press members nearly wetting themselves in their eagerness to get a word from me. I give them a statement here and there, my arm around Draco's shoulders, both of us playing victim.  
  
In a way, I am, only my tormentor was not Narcissa, nor has my ordeal ended.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The first thing I do with my new freedom is buy a carmensieve of children's songs. 'Allouette' is sung by a witch with an annoyingly nasal voice. I throw it out.  
  
* * * * *  
  
I could ignore the damage to my being until they thrust me back into the world. I'm grateful for the trial, for the halfway house it provided as they shuffled me between a not-quite-right cell, and a crowded courtroom. I shudder to imagine how much more swiftly I would have fallen apart if not for those intermediate months.  
  
I sit at my new desk, in my new house, both untouched by rabid auror or foolish wife. There are things that must be done, and I cannot afford to pamper myself. The ministry took most of my wealth, leaving me with the few assets I could prove untainted by 'Narcissa's' evil schemes, and the larger sums I had concealed for just such a disaster.   
  
I am still well-off.  
  
That's not good enough for a Malfoy.  
  
It shouldn't be good enough.  
  
I watch the light bleeding all over my desk, and realize I am humming.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry Potter broke me.  
  
Like a skulking pusher of Knockturn Alley he let me sample his wares, drugged me with his body, instilled this sweet craving for young flesh, addicted me to green eyes.   
  
*His* flesh. *His* eyes.  
  
I've come to realize the delicious, deadly burn of him will never leave my blood. Merlin, I hate him.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The nameless young man does not question the setting, though he shivers in the chill. His eyes pay due homage to my still-admirable body, but his appreciation is too submissive to please me. This boy does not have the bollocks to meet my gaze, stare me down, secure in the knowledge he is right and good and fair and honest, and I am not.  
  
This boy does not think himself better than me, and cannot chose to touch me despite his arrogance.  
  
It takes me an hour to come, and I leave him sore and disgruntled and only a little wealthier.  
  
* * * * *  
  
I have a small collection of carmensieves now; dozens of versions of 'Allouette'. None of the singers pronounce gentile 'jaunty'.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Draco, my shining, darling boy, once again comes through for me, and brings me a single hair. He asks me flatly what I plan to do with it, and I can see Snape's sneer stealing onto a face that once belonging solely to me, I can feel the self-righteous lecture brewing under the moonlight skin, ready to burst forth with all of Severus' unholy joy in putting a person in his or her place. All the fanaticism of the converted.  
  
So I tell him, and his disgust and horror delight me.  
  
* * * * *  
  
The polyjuice experiment goes very, very badly, and I nearly kill the whore in frustration. 'Avada' escapes my lips before the wide, frightened, green eyes that once reflected the killing curse still my lips. I obliviate him, and leave my galleons on the table.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry Potter broke me like a child playing with a toy, careless and curious, innocent in his devastating exploration. No comprehension of what he has done, the damage he has wrought, no understanding of the irreversible nature of destruction. He pulled me apart, piece by piece; plucked out my eyes, my tongue, my mind, my heart and left me gutted.  
  
I get hard just thinking of it.  
  
* * * * *  
  
One day in June a lark lights on the window sill.  
  
I stun it, lift it gently, feel its heart pounding madly against my palm. "Allouette," I whisper. "Je suis desole. Vous devez mourir, parce qu'il m'a plume. Je suis desole. Je suis desole." [1]  
  
And I am.  
  
* * * * *  
  
Draco comes home as June gives way to July. He isn't in much, and I understand this strange house is just a temporary stop, a place from which to launch his own flight. His own career. His own life. I let him go, knowing I lost him more than a year ago, and try to hold my tongue whenever he brings Snape home.  
  
I wonder if Harry liked his present, and ignore it when Snape holds my son's hand.  
  
* * * * *   
  
Fuck. That little bastard *broke* me.  
  
* * * * *   
  
"How I love this light."  
  
And, Merlin, I do. It makes him seem less of a wild thing, softens the divine angles of him and banks those burning eyes. The poor little bird decorates his flat now, beautiful and savage and refined and desolate, just like me, just like him. He is wonderful in his refusal to acknowledge me.  
  
*Make me crawl to you.*  
  
I try again. "I love how it tames your eyes, how it deepens them and calms the restlessness."  
  
*Make me beg.*  
  
He does, with a single feather to his lips, and I do. "Don't let me go. I'm so lost." The words fall like cathartic dreams churning up from the subconscious, only I know this confession. I live it every day. I will speak it forever into the cavernous universe, but I would much rather pour it into his body, my altar, our sacramental dance stripped to its essence.  
  
God, I want him to fuck me.  
  
I kiss his nape, and he speaks at last, his own confession tossed to me as my reward. His accent has improved; he has been practicing, and the devastating purr of his voice undoes me completely, and I moan, and obey him as I must. I kiss and touch him as he commands.  
  
"Marry me."   
  
The words hang in the air, and for a moment I am terrified he has said them, but then he answers, and it was I who asked, I who was broken, not Harry. Never Harry.  
  
Yes.  
  
Yes.  
  
Yes.  
  
He captures me, and my hearts beats as the lark's did before I killed it, and he brings his lips to mine.   
  
* * * * *  
  
Harry Potter broke me, and for that I will love him for all eternity.  
  
  
  
~Finis~  
  
[1] "Allouette," I whisper. "Je suis desole. Vous devez mourir, parce qu'il m'a plume. Je suis desole. Je suis desole."  
  
"Lark," I whisper. "I'm sorry. You must die, because he has plucked me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 


End file.
